Harvest

Autumn is here. And it has arrived later than usual; but then, the weather these past few years has been unusual and unpredictable. We have still not had that killer frost and it is October 15.

It was on a wild, misty, rainy mid-October day 24 years ago that we first set our eyes on this place we now call home. Love at first sight. Today is much warmer than that day however. The wind is strong but balmy.

I have just finished a morning of canning green tomato and pear chutney. The house is filled with the aroma of this intoxicating concoction. I did not have sufficient red wine vinegar; so I have supplemented it with fine red wine.

One of my pear trees has yielded an abundant crop of near perfect Bosc pears. I have already canned 16 litres of this delicious fruit plus filled several smaller jars with pear sauce. However my apples this year, unlike last year’s abundant and near perfect crop, are sparse, small and scarred. So, sadly I have not put away any of this fruit this year.

John has done up several litres of his annual nine day pickles. My brother has sent us home from Nova Scotia with many jars of both his delicious tomato sauce and tomato chile. So, I think we are in good shape for many winter evenings of culinary delight.

A Chair

What is “art”? This is a question. 

Is it something only people can create? Or is it something created by any act that a beholder finds to be artistic. 

For example, today I passed by a wooden armchair on our patio. I have passed it many times this summer. 

Today I was struck by the colour and position of the chair, and of a natural act that has been imposed upon it. I took a picture of it. 

Is the object of the picture art? Or is it the act of taking the picture that has made it art? 

Does it matter? It is a thing of interest. It is a thing of beauty in the eyes of this beholder.

A Stag & Doe

On Saturday evening my partner and I went off to a “Stag & Doe” party at the local Legion. I had never been to one of these particular events. It was delightful and was made all the more so because the bride and groom are deaf as are so many of their young friends. There is such a joyful, affectionate comradery amongst this group. I so wished I could have engaged more with them other than by the nod of a head or a smile.

We have known the bride-to-be since she was born. Her immediate family lives just across the field from us, and her extended family work the farm a short hike down the road. The concept of a pre-marriage party for both members of the couple is refreshing. The typical separate “Stag” and “Wedding Shower” events have never appealed to me … the former often being an excuse for a vulgar drunk and the latter being a women’s-only petty gossip session. Stereotypical images I know.

At this event there were organized games, and draws, which served the purpose of drawing people together. People of all ages engaged with one another and mingled, even if their paths had never crossed before and might never cross again. Laughter was in the air… a healthy, happy laughter and competition too was rife, - a playful, spirited competition.

We were the only two from our village and rural community who attended that had not been raised here or were not part of the host family. We have only lived here for 23 years! But we have never considered ourselves outsiders, and for the most part have never been considered as outsiders. We strove early to become part of this amazing rural world.

Unfortunately, many city ex-pats do not immerse themselves in daily life here. They view themselves as above the throng. They join a group of self-proclaimed elite, a third rate aristocracy with showcase homes, extravagant parties and mindless chatter of self-aggrandizement. It is regrettable because they miss so much. Little do they know that they are often the subject of ridicule and contempt. Their experience would be far richer if they doffed their urban airs and let down their urbane hair.

Endless Rain

Oh for a day without endless rain

One day, just one, for pity’s sake

The grass is like a horse’s mane

The breeze is of a glistening lake

With laundry waiting for the line.

The sun is seldom seen for this late June

And patiently I bide my time

Amid lush trees and fragrant bloom.

I should not mind the rain pounding on my roof

While I watch from the comfort of my covered porch

Though man’s organizing mind in truth

Could wish it came with much less force;

And I look so for the sun’s healing rays

Though I would wish its heat was less extreme

But we are held to account for nature’s ways

By greed and vanity and selfish schemes.

Raging floods in torrents cause banks to burst

Then cruel drought follows in its stead

Drying wells and causing plants to wilt with thirst

Until the garden lays parched and dead.

I remember when spring was long and green,

Summer days were blissful, filled with laughter’s sound

And autumn crisp and golden and serene

Followed by winter’s predictable snow upon the ground

Each season with its purpose and its mark

Has long worked its magic on this tiny star

But must we now endure the chaos however stark?

Have we missed the chance and gone too far?

The Holly Bears a Berry

Nature never ceases to amaze. About 20 years ago I planted a very small holly bush, against my own better judgment and the advice of more experienced gardeners. We are not in the most temperate of climate zones. Here the temperature can be three or four degrees colder in the winter months and three or four degrees hotter in the summer months than even that which is a few kilometers to the south of us. But my little bush has grown and thrived and now stands thick and over four feet in height. It has bloomed abundantly year in and year out… But at most, it has only borne half a dozen dispersed red berries to my great disappointment.

Last fall I happened to be in the Garden Centre where I had purchased this plant those many years ago. While there, I learned that the holly needs both a male and a female bush to produce those absent red berries. Why it had taken me so long to discover, I do not know.

There happened to be one small male plant left on the premises. I bought it and skeptically planted it not too far from the original. Alas, I have just noticed that the original bush is now laden with hundreds, if not thousands, of thick clumps of berries, at this point still green. My excitement rises. I can, almost, hardly wait for the yet to arrive summer to turn to autumn. But for the time being, I will satisfy myself with the delayed arrival of summer and those lovely green berries.

Trauma

Our small village of Warkworth is one of almost constant activity: Maple syrup festivals, fall fairs, art shows, theatre, concerts, street festivals and more. Last night was such an event. The main street was closed. People I had never seen before came out of the woodwork. Children and parents abounded. There was food, music and dancing on the street. It was a true delight.

Now, I consider myself a reasonably good dancer, but by no means one that would win awards. I also consider myself to be a good listener and a fairly quick learner. Both considerations were crushed last night at our village’s street festival in front of a sizeable crowd of onlookers.

Reluctantly, I had offered myself up to learn square dancing because a male was desperately sought after to join the fray. I may have done some square dancing back in public school in the late 1950s. The recollection is only faint at best. I have certainly done Scottish Country dancing in the distant past and became quite accomplished at it. This is not unlike square dancing I had thought. Moreover, line dancing had been a regular entertainment for me and my life partner in the early 1990s. And only a few years ago I had competently joined a happy group of street revelers in dance on May Day in a seaside town in Cornwall, England. Good enough credentials I would have thought.

I was placed with a dance partner on one side of what was, I presumed, a square formation made up of four couples. The very first instruction, if it can be called that, was to – let’s say - “adeline”, (because I don’t remember the exact term and cannot find it on the internet) “to the left”. It would have been helpful if we had been told or even better, shown, what an “adeline” (or whatever) was. However, as the music began, I was quickly hauled to the right! And then, as I presumed I was to proceed in that direction, I was shoved to the left by some older, more experienced and seemingly rather cranky dancer. At one point someone snapped at me to let go of my partner’s hand, as if this should have been eminently obvious to me, and I was shoved inexplicably in another direction. After more such confusion, pushing and sheer bewilderment and frustration, and lacking in any coherent instruction, I fled from the pack to the sidelines and left my dance partner on her dismayed own.

Dancing should be fun. This was not – at least not for me. I did enjoy the animated belly dancing that followed, although as a bemused observer.

Who Killed Young Robin

Is it any wonder that humans are so dreadful to each other when the birds can be so wicked to those of other species. Robins tend to be very stupid about where they build their nests – often far too close to the ground, too visible to the passing eye. On our well-treed property we have many species of birds – some passing through, others remaining for some time before flying on and others nesting. The robins and the grackles are the most abundant in the spring. They seem always to be loudly harassing one another. The grackles usually win … sometime with heartbreaking effect. 

There is a lovely holly bush on our patio next to a little-used entrance door. This year, two robins built a nest there, about a metre off the ground and close to the path. Three lovely little turquoise eggs were deposited there and one or other of the parent birds sat devotedly on the nest. At first, it would fly off when we passed through yet another door a little further away. Then it would stay there, eyes fixed on our movement. Finally, even when we passed forgetfully close, it remained at the parental station.

One morning we peeked into the bush to see what developments may have occurred: … one egg missing, one dead newborn, on lonely abandoned egg remaining. This was just after a loud kerfuffle in a neighbouring Rowan tree between a robin and a grackle. There was no doubt in our minds what had transpired, for this was not the first time we had witnessed the effect of nests raided, of eggs stolen and of young birds carried off and ruthlessly killed, the cadavers tossed to the ground.

Although we humans have the ability to act generously towards those who are different from ourselves, too often we are that dreadful antagonistic grackle asserting ourselves simply because we can. Sad.

Morning Visitors

This morning, as we sat with our coffee looking at a bright red sun rise out the east window, we chanced to glimpse two young rabbits frolicking with each other on the lawn and driveway. We have only recently observed a number of rabbits in the fields. These ones seemed to belong right here in our compound. They ran repeatedly around the coach house, into the shrubs, under the cars like two joyful, tireless children playing hide and seek. What a delight. 

Then as I lay on the floor doing my habitual morning exercises, John called out frantically: “Look, get up, quick!” As I scrambled to my feet, we both stood in awe as this gigantic male turkey appeared from behind the coach house. It stood tall and stately, fanned its regal tail and slowly progressed across the lawn toward the window where we were standing wide mouthed. 

If our beloved Buster had been 100 pounds, then this creature’s weight certainly came close to it. Its belly appeared like that of a pregnant woman at full term or of a portly older gentleman of the Victorian era come fresh from the after-dinner salon, well sated. 

It seemed to be heading determinedly towards the garden where we have placed a large metal sculpture representing a heron with its wings spread wide… But it continued past and disappeared into the upper garden and then to the field beyond. 

It seemed odd to us that such a striking male turkey would not be with its harem. Usually they can be seen in the fields with a flock of twenty or more. But later, we observed a small flock of turkeys disappear behind the barn. 

Why does one so often lack a camera at hand during such wonderful close encounters?

An Indignant Robin

You won't see the robins in my photo. They flew off as the snow intensified. 

But as I have been sitting here at 1:30 in the afternoon, by the fire, watching the accumulation of snow that has been falling since 7:30 this morning, I did see a robin fluffed up and hunched indignantly against the February cold. It was eating the miniature crab apples, in appearance more like cherries. These still cling burnished red from the branches in abundance. 
This robin would obviously prefer to nosh on a worm. It quickly drops each bitter fruit that it picks as it flutters from branch to branch. Out another widow I could see another tree, bare of fruit but laden with birds. And on one branch sat another robin with its bright orange chest puffed out, seemingly oblivious to a vibrant blue jay sitting close to it, pondering. On a branch below was the chipper chickadee. This trinity is a rare sight, at least for me. There should be no robins up here on this hill at this time of year. Any that did not fly south should be huddled in the thick trees of the deep valley across the field. 
But this is no ordinary winter. Last week there was a flock of 30 or more robins on the snow covered lawn. Rarely, if at all, have I seen robins flocking. My eyes were wide in disbelief. As the weather goes back and forth in an instant from mild and snowless to frigid and icy, who can blame a bird for being confused. My neighbour has even see a number of bluebirds in her trees, a rare sighting even in the warmest days of spring. 
This winter has seen an unusual array of climate patterns. I can handle snow. It's the snow mixed with rain and freezing rain, and the snow on top of layers of ice that has become the bane of my existence this winter. But then, I guess a challenge is good for one's constitution. But I do feel like that indignant robin, all puffed up and bewildered.

Lumberjack 26 October 2016

Today I climbed a ladder

Which I leaned into a tree.

It was somewhat precarious

And more than a bit rickety.

I climbed it more than once

For it wasn’t one but three.

And they are big old cedars

That block our view you see.

So they needed much the pruning

Their tops that I sawed free.

And as I clung to branches

And grasped them steadily.

I sawed by arm and hand

I sawed quite heartily.

I sawed until my shoulder ached

And felt it tenderly.

I sawed from every angle.

I sawed so busily.

And then I cleared the brush away

And cleared it hastily.

For my partner does not like it

When I work when absent he

But now I see the distant hills

And view the wild turkey.

And I watch the deer and foxes run

As they dash so speedily.

So I am pleased by the finished task

And grin now mischievously.

When will he notice what is done

When will it dawn on he

That the vista has now improved

And grown formidably.

Magellan

While the world is in turmoil, we seem to be continually struck by the wonder of nature on our hilltop in Northumberland County. Earlier this past summer I was working in the garden when a passing glance saved me from stepping on a small painted turtle. It was huddled in its palm-sized shell, trying to hide on a piece of limestone that edges one of our gardens. 
Although the occasional frog makes its way up our hill from distant marshland across fields of hay and a gravel road, this visitor was a first for us. Perhaps these creatures smell water, however tiny the source. For we have a bathtub-sized pond in our garden. But why trade a large marsh for such a venue. 
I picked up the magnificent creature in my hand. I carefully carried it to this small pond and set it on one of the large waterlily pads. It seemed very happy; but after several days it disappeared. Perhaps wanderlust took it further. I had named it Magellan after another adventurer.

Cracked and Baffled

We love our old house. We love the creaks and the groans, the imperfect floors, the drafts and those cobwebs that keep reappearing. We love it’s history, its eyes and ears, its secrets. But an old house, is like an old person. It needs constant care and attention. You get a hip replaced and the knee goes out. You sneeze and all hell breaks loose.

But we love the wood panelled walls in the “summer kitchen” and its beamed ceiling. We love the fireplaces that burn bright and comforting in the fall, winter and early spring. We cherish the abundant screen doors that give out to the gardens and fresh air, to the decks and the patio in the late spring, summer and early fall. We love the uncurtained windows facing the stunning vistas to the north and south and east and west and, of course, the front porch facing to the sun rise.

However, there is the old faithful dug well with its magnificent stone walls and abundant water source that just gave out after a parching summer of drought. Fortunately, we have our trusty cistern recently refurbished and our many rain barrels. So we have survived these past two weeks quite well while waiting for the plumber to arrive: a wonderful lesson in water conservation. The well needs to be cleaned out and the intake freed of the silt that is now blocking it.

Then there is the lovely soap stone fireplace in our summer kitchen, now converted to one of our living rooms. The chimney sweep has reported after his recent annual visit that the baffle is bust. Yes, and we must not use it until it is repaired, for it is cracked and potentially a fire hazard. So we wait for our cracked baffle to be repaired. Cracked and baffled ourselves. Fortunately we have had a very warm and extended autumn.

While cutting up some firewood the other day, the chainsaw gave out just as we were finishing the task, and in the last trimming of fence rows the lawn mower sputtered to a stop. It was not merely out of gas. I have made that mistake embarrassingly once before. And when we hooked up the trailer to take these machines in for repair, the trailer’s signal lights did not work. So now we must wait for the repair of the trailer’s electrical system before ferrying our gadgets to the distant mechanic.

Yes, we love our home and the knoll upon which it sits. We love that we know these service people by name and where they live, and that they are all close neighbours. We love that we feel part of the wonderful countryside around us with its challenges and its blessings.

I Saw a Snake Today

I saw a snake on the patio wall

It too saw me standing by

I was filling the cistern with a pale

Because our well’s gone dry.

It feared my presence and turned to flee

Not merely slinking as snakes will do

But leaping airborne to a hidden place

Where only snakes pass through.

Then crossing the courtyard to the barn

Another snake was at the door

It saw me coming to enter in

And scurried beneath the floor.

What creatures lurk beneath my feet

And me above their place

I cannot doubt their right to be

We must all share this wondrous space.

I’ll leave the rocks and soil for them

Disturbing the least I can

To safeguard well their earthen homes

From the carelessness of Man.

But let them stay well hidden there

For though I want them on this earth

It excludes settling my dwelling’s walls

Or resting upon my hearth.

Autumn Ride

Resting

The Sun so warm upon my face

Fills my spirit with passion’s zest

As I glide with steady pace

The breeze upon my heaving chest.

The air clean and fresh in autumn light

My nostrils wide with harvest scent

My eyes are filled with such delight

As my thighs churn with torso bent.

The colours of the woods surrounding

Vibrant red and orange and purple yet

The call of nature deep resounding

With resonance I shan’t forget.

I cycle through the field and down the lane

To gravel road and more descent

My legs revolve beyond their pain

And sweating still I am content.

Then up and up and up again I strive

With pulsing veins as muscles pound

Telling me I am quite alive

With circling wheels homeward bound.

How Dry I Am

This has been a summer of intense persistent heat and parching drought. This is not news to anyone who lives in the Ontario countryside. Withered cornfields, dry stream beds and wells, grass like straw doormats, dead shrubs and trees all attest to it. Some herds are being culled with the cost of hay soaring.

And yet, this autumn has been so late in arriving, with no frost still at Thanksgiving, the wild flowers along the road sides and field edges flamboyant. The woods in our horizon are glowing with vibrant colour like in no other year that I have witnessed since moving here almost 23 years ago.

These October days are warm with glistening sunshine. The mornings are cool with fog rising from the valleys and obscuring the usual vistas from our hilltop home. It seems as if we are on an island out in the middle of an ancient sea.

This visual beauty no doubt hides the practical hardship that so many are experiencing. We need rain so desperately here, even as I am hearing news of a hurricane now ravaging many parts of the world to the south of us with heavy rains and ferocious winds. One wonders if these extremes are the new reality. One hopes not.

Flirting Turtle

An earlier posting this summer was a tale of a painted turtle that appeared in our garden at home. Turtles, of course, come in many sizes and varieties. Our summer cottage lake is home to two kinds that we know of. These are the painted turtle and the snapper.

The painted is seen on logs by the water’s edge as we canoe by . They can vary in length from a few inches to about one foot if one takes the neck, shell and tail into consideration. We seem to have three generations of snapping turtles that appear under the surface of the water or peaking above it near our docks. One is a little more than one foot in length, another almost two feet, and the elder is a good three feet or more from head to tail.

Whereas, as the name suggests, the painted turtle is pretty to look at, the snappers, on the other hand are gnarled and worn and ominous. They have large feet and claws and, when outstretched, very long necks. The shell of the largest itself is at least two feet from tip to toe.

Guests are always intrigued by the size of the snapper, and somewhat intimidated. We always assure them that these remnants of an antediluvian epoch are more afraid of us than we should be of them. But do not corner them or you are sure to lose a finger or toe or even a hand or foot. Regardless, the lake is big enough for all to survive happily together. Indeed, my partner is wont to talk sweetly to these creatures as they surface near the dock from time to time.

That was our story for the past thirty summers until recently when we were putting our dock to bed for the approaching winter season. We do this annual ritual by disconnecting our dock from its attachment to the shore and then floating it into a quiet and sheltered bay. My partner and I must stand up to our waists on either side of the short bridge that holds the dock in place. We next remove the lynch pins and piping that secure the dock and flip the bridge back onto the land.

We were just beginning this exercise when a base shriek came from my partner’s side of the dock. I watched in amazement as he jumped clear out of the water and onto the rocks - a considerable feat for a man in his 70s. The large snapper had nudged his leg with the butt of his head! But upon witnessing the ensuing commotion, it had departed abruptly into the deep – or so we thought.

Back into the water we went when I felt a distinct pressure on my right foot. Looking down, I saw this large clawed foot resting on top of mine and the adjacent face of the turtle. A shriek of a similar nature was emitted from my side of the dock and I was quickly elevated to dry land. But the creature did not flee. It stayed there grinning up at me from the deep for a while, before slipping into the darkness of the deep.

Now were these possibly merely pats of friendship from one alien creature to another, or was it perhaps testing the possibility of digestion? I might hope to never find out. 

A Summer Mystery Solved

There has been a mystery on our lake, unsolved these many years. And like our discovery one recent misty morning, I shall gently unfold its secret to you here.

We were sitting on our long dock, facing westerly towards a silent island adorned with magnificent white pine. This has become a morning ritual for us, coffee in hand, wonder in our eyes.

While we were still in shadow, a thin layer of mist lingering over the water, the sun lost in the trees behind us, ahead the water danced brilliant. The far shore was illuminated under a teal blue sky bespeckled with small cottony clouds, white as snow.

The water was still glassy calm. A lone loon bathed in the distance while a seagull circled overhead. From the island we noticed a v-shaped ripple take shape and move in our direction. There was vigorous animation in this ripple.

This was not a particularly odd occurrence however. We have seen beaver, and an otter and even moose, deer and a bear emerge from the sanctity of this island paradise - a right of passage to the mainland. But we have never before beheld this creature now swimming so confidently toward us, no not in our thirty years on this Blackwater Lake.

We sipped our coffee, watched in quietude and wondered. It was too small for a beaver; so certainly it was no moose, deer or bear.

Weeks ago we had observed an otter swim vigorously from our shore to the island. No doubt this had to be that very otter returning to us.

The creature continued to swim in a seemingly predetermined direction directly toward our dock. Was it bold, or was it oblivious to our presence there? As it came closer, there was a directness in its upward glance, a certain cheekiness of entitlement and belonging. The look was all too familiar. The tail stretching out behind was familiar too.

The creature climbed without hesitation onto the underbelly of our dock and passaged quickly to the rocky shore. From there it ran to a tall cedar and mounted its aerial pulpit from which it hurled down hellfire and damnation upon us.

Our island friends of summer, now gone to that land below our borders, had like us wondered at the presence of a solitary rodent on their domain. This frisky, tree climbing, nut eating intruder had surely reached their shores on the winter ice that covers these waters from December to April each year. After all, squirrels may fly, but they surely do not swim.

But yes, at least one of them does. And it does it well. And this one, no doubt deeply annoyed at having been denied access to its island winter home by fresh mortar, had fled in indignation to our mainland sanctuary.